The Door She Said Not to Open
Asher never believed the stories his grandmother used to whisper by candlelight-the ones about lost souls, forest spirits, and places that remembered grief. She had brought those tales with her from a land he'd never seen, folded them into lullabies and warnings, always ending with a solemn: "Some doors are better left closed."
He had forgotten most of them.
Until the day he stepped into the old house by the woods.
It was supposed to be a quiet place-a break from the noise of city life. Cheap rent, distant neighbors, and nothing but a creek and scattered trees outside his window. But something was wrong. The forest never rustled. The rocking chair never gathered dust. And every night, the moonlight spilled across the floor like it had been waiting for him.
Now, memories of her stories return in pieces-some too blurred to understand, others too clear to ignore.
This house isn't empty.
It remembers.
And it's been waiting.
